Page 94 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Then we’re in Connor’s office. The first thing he does when the door is closed is turn to me and hold out his hand.
“Phone.”
I stare at him. “OK, now you’re starting to scare me.”
He insists, “Gimme your damn phone, brother.”
Knowing resistance is futile, I withdraw my phone from my coat pocket and hand it over. Connor inspects it and then nods, satisfied. “You turned it off. Good.”
“Why is that good?”
He looks at me. “GPS is disabled when the phone’s off. You can’t be tracked.”
That doesn’t make me feel any better. “Now would be a great time to tell me what the hell is going on.”
“What’s goin’ on,” he says, moving to his desk, a slab of black granite at least six feet wide, “is the fuckin’ sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, my friend.”
He swivels his computer monitor so it faces me. It’s dark, except for an odd animated character cheerfully waving as it slowly bounces from top to bottom, side to side. It’s whiskered, white, and cartoonish, and vaguely resembles a cat.
A thought bubble over the cat’s head reads, “Nice try, idiot!”
“Interesting screensaver. What is it?”
He says sarcastically, “Oh, that? Yeah, that’s only the emblem of one of the most notorious hackers out there.”
I frown. Hacker? “So what’s it doing on your computer?”
“Aggravating the fuck outta me, is what it’s doing!”
I raise my brows, lifting my gaze to his. If there’s one thing Connor Hughes is known for, it’s his nerves of steel. If something’s aggravating him, it must be bad.
Really bad.
I say drily, “I can see that. Are you going to fill me in as to why?”
Connor folds his arms across his chest and glares at the computer as if he’d like to whip out a pair of six-shooters and start blasting. “This asshole,” he snaps, jabbing his finger toward the screen, “has been a thorn in my side for years. He’s arrogant, subversive, smart as fuck and, worst of fuckin’ all, untraceable. Goes by the code name Polaroid because of his supposed photographic memory.” He mutters, “Prick.”
I’m starting to have a terrible feeling about this. “And Victoria Price is somehow related to this Mr. Polaroid?”
He grunts. “Not that I could easily prove it. The son of a bitch has developed mathematical obfuscation software that not only cloaks his identity but also erases all traces of the source code and location once the payload has been delivered, like those self-destruct messages in the Mission Impossible movies. The only thing he ever leaves behind is that”—Connor jerks his chin in disgust at the cartoon cat on the screen—“because he wants you
to know he’s the one who just bent you over and fucked you.”
“I don’t get it—if his code name is Polaroid, why a white cat and not a camera?”
Connor barks, “Because he’s a dick, that’s why!”
Then it hits me.
White: the only color I’ve ever seen Victoria wear is white. Her clothing, shoes, handbags…all white. Even all the furnishings in her apartment are white. It’s her signature color.
Cat: I remember what I told Marie-Thérèse said about Victoria: “She’s all bark and no bite. A pussycat.”
To which Marie-Thérèse responded: “Cats have long claws and sharp teeth, and kill billions of small mammals a year. They’re basically cute serial killers.”
Photographic memory: Victoria is known for the rousing, intelligent speeches given at her sold-out seminars…all made without the assistance of a teleprompter. Every word is inside her head.
I sink slowly into the chair in front of Connor’s desk. He stares at me, the questioning look on his face no doubt caused by what must be the expression of utter shock on my own face. He prompts, “What?”
